Friday Fictioneers -An Ordinary Teenage Disorder

 

Photo Courtesy of Jean L Hayes

Hi all. This week was a struggle and I nearly gave up, but here is my entry for Friday Fictioneers

Only two days until prom, and decorating is underway.

Molten glue drips onto my finger, welding another button to my skin instead of the heart shaped wire frame.

Alex glances over and I quickly turn my head away, feeling every blood vessel in my cheeks dilate.

God, what is wrong with me? A question all my friends must be asking as they avoid me, like love sickness might be catching.  It’s torture, this guessing game of what’s possible and what’s likely and what I want and what will actually happen.

Nothing is happening, I think, as he steps towards me.

 

 

Friday Fictioneers – Slippery Dish

Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Good evening everyone. This is an entry for Friday Fictioneers, where we write a 100 word story based on the photo prompt. The challenge is hosted here by Rochelle Wisoff Fields, who also kindly supplied the photo this week. The frog below will take you to other entries. 

Pink Froggie

A lacquered bowl was gently placed in front of him.

Octopus – his favourite dish. He plucked a tentacle with some chopsticks, admiring the delicate fleshy circles.

Of course, the biggest suckers at this particular restaurant table were definitely his prospective clients.

He smiled at them, but not too much. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen. That way, they’d never question if the deal was too good to be true.

An honest deal wouldn’t keep him in pricey sushi, would it?

“Well, I might have a solution to your problems, but it’s a bit different to what you had in mind…”

 

Friday Fictioneers – Brittle as Paint

Hi all, greetings from Spain. If I can’t manage a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers while on holiday then there’s no hope for the rest of the time! Uploading on my phone has been a little tricky as has not having an automatic word count, but I hope I’m not too far off.

Beams of torchlight in the darkness. The bark of soldiers. A hazy silhouette of a man being hauled by his armpits.

Realising that it was her man.

Here, a parting like that was a parting forever. A total rending of her heart and her hopes of escaping this godforsaken country.

Later, under a bloody sunrise, she looked down at the bench and remembered the schemes they’d concocted there, brittle as the paint she was flaking with her fingernail.

No, those crackpot plans weren’t worthy of hopes. This is why, with no faith left to gamble, she would take those flimsy chances anyway.

Friday Fictioneers – The Means of Production

Photo by C E Ayrs

Decided to give Friday Fictioneers a go this week, run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  I’m honestly not a huge political history buff, but decided to try and go in that direction anyway. I also would like to leave a disclaimer that even though I do work in manufacturing, this is definitely not something I am planning! 

No missed calls. No new emails.

After two cups of espresso and reading 30 pages the latest Simon Sinek book, he picked up his eerily silent company phone, perplexed.

As he drove to the office, he decided that great leadership was creating a self-sufficient workforce which did not bombard him with communications every minute.

He pulled up to the gate. Reversed. Pulled up again. This automatic number plate recognition system was beyond ridiculous. He owned the building, for God’s sake!

He jabbed at the intercom.

“I’m sorry,” a voice came through the static. “You’re no longer permitted in this factory…”

Friday Fictioneers -The Consolation Prize

Photo Credit – Dale Rogerson

This is a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers. Please follow the link to find the rules and to look at other 100 word stories. 

Candy pink sky fades to indigo. You knock on my door at exactly six.

I can’t help but see us, shadow backlit by fairground lights, reflected in the abundant chrome, in the eyes of the vendor who implores you to take one more chance to win me a prize.

No luck for you, and no stuffed creature for me. Consolation comes from following the scent of onions and doughnuts to purveyors of deep-fried delights.

You offer to share.

Lips coated in oily cinnamon-sugar, we kiss for the first time.

At home, I blame red cheeks on chill October air.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Yellow

Bicycles

Photograph by Susan Spaulding

Hello all. This is an entry for Sunday Photo Fiction. Coming in well under the word limit today – but for once it just didn’t feel right to add anything else. One thing I struggled with was the shortening of toasted sandwich – growing up this was called a toastie, but not sure how widely used that term is? 

“Where’s your mum pissed off to this time?”

“Didn’t ask. Don’t care,” Layla said, almost like she meant it.

There was a greasy hiss from the toastie-maker as Rachel popped the lid.

“Puts a dint in those fabulous plans she promised?” Rachel guessed. She flipped the sandwiches onto plates and set them on the table.

Layla pierced hers with a fork. The toastie exhaled steam before haemorrhaging nutella-banana filling.

“I love these,” Layla said. “Better than birthday cake, anyway.”

Rachel raised a glass of lemonade.

“Happy sweet sixteenth, Layla.”

Friday Fictioneers – In Hiding

This image belongs to Anshu Bhojnagarwala.

 

This is a submission for Friday Fictioneers, a challenge to write a 100 word story based on the photo prompt. It’s a lot harder than I remembered, but I got there eventually.

“May? Are you in here?”

After a pause, the music classroom door closed.

Nestled under the piano, she tucked her costume skirt over her feet. The show would go on without her. She didn’t care if they were angry. The last exam was finished, and she wouldn’t see her fellow students again.

There was no mum or dad waiting in the audience to watch her.

A folded flyer for A Midsummer’s Night Dream propped up a stool leg.

She thought of Alice, proudly waving the flyer, proclaiming her big sister was a fairy.

May reluctantly left her hiding place.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Human Misery

This is a flash fiction for Sunday Photo Fiction – 200 words or less based on the photo prompt. Follow the linky for an explanation of the rules or more stories. 

Magdalena had enjoyed 8 happy years of marriage and expected many more to come. Her husband was a thoughtful and honest man, and the idea of abandoning him for anyone else would never cross her mind.

Somewhere down in one of the many netherworlds, three old crones were watching the human world through their special crystal glass. Nothing gave this sadistic bunch more pleasure than watching unhappy mortals.

They didn’t need to get involved too much, humans were very good at making each other miserable. However, they were capable of a few manipulations here and there, and it made the watching even more entertaining.

A stranger was passing through Magdalena’s village, and all it took was one crone’s whisper: “Isn’t he handsome?”

A Warlock’s Opinion of Love

Photo: J Hardy Carroll

 

This is an entry to Friday Fictioneers – where we write 100 word stories based on the picture prompt provided.

Most warlocks will tell you that magic cannot interfere with love. However, Arran’s 162 year experience has taught him that love can be far more fragile than many ascribe it to be.

20 minutes ago, he watched with disappointment as his young protégé disappeared into a $200-a-night hotel with his ill chosen minx. From that moment, this private tryst was doomed.

A simple incantation and smoke is billowing from just one window of the hotel. The lovers are probably oblivious to what’s happening outside, but it won’t be long before they have sudden, unexpected company.

Love rarely survives such indignities.

Unwanted Gifts

Roberta hurried out of the front door in her husband’s slippers and shawl. Neither were adequate protection for the occurring downpour, but she marched down the street anyway. One of Roberta’s elderly neighbours was hobbling along the pavement some distance away.  Roberta always forgets her name; the street she lives on is friendly but not that friendly. The old lady started to cross the road, but her foot skidded on a stray piece of gravel as she stepped off the pavement. Roberta, however, was ready to save the day, and roughly grasped Bridget (The name dislodged itself from somewhere in Roberta’s memory) by her upper arm and pulled her up before she could fall onto the road.

Some five seconds later, a silver Toyota dashed around the corner, narrowly missing the kerb.

“Oh!” exclaimed Bridget. She stood for a second in silence, clearly contemplating what could have happened if Roberta had not been there. “How lucky you were here, R-“

“Bridget, we should get you out of the rain!” interrupted Roberta, through gritted teeth. Her slippers are already sodden.

After escorting Bridget to her front door, Roberta returned home and dried off. She made a milky cup of tea and began to confide in Fudge, her placid tabby cat.

“Oh, so lucky you were here, Roberta!” she imitated, with a dollop of sarcasm. “Yeah, lucky for you, you old bint. Not exactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday, and if Dave’s slippers don’t come out of the tumble dryer alright, I’m done for.”

Roberta’s in depth chats with Fudge only started when she started having the visions. The cat wouldn’t think she was crazy, and most importantly, the cat couldn’t tell anyone else that Roberta had gone off her rocker and thought she could see the future. Fudge yawned and stretched across the settee on the opposite side of the living room to the Roberta.

“Okay, Fudge, I know. Dave deserves to have his slippers ruined, the cheating bastard. Though, he might not have cheated on me yet, and we know that we can change what’s in the visions or Bridget would have met her maker this afternoon. So maybe he won’t cheat on me. The vision of him and his ex-wife could be completely out of context?”

In response to this, Fudge stared glassily out of the window.

“Or maybe I’m in complete denial,” Roberta sighed.